Ten Years
by tartan robes
Summary: At least.


_More or less just a series of drabbles. I wanted to try and piece together a relatively plausible history for Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes._

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><p><em><strong>i.<strong>_

He comes to Downton with his eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders slouched. "You will stand up straight and proud in this household, Carson," the butler, Mr. Bell, tells him, but he can't bring himself to do so. Not for the first week. The walls are so high, the family so elegant, the grounds so big; it's all so terribly important. And who is he? An overgrown boy with a singing voice and dancing shoes. He doesn't belong here. He's the exact opposite of what Downton is.

"_Back straight, Carson_," Bell barks at him for the tenth time that week. "Do you belong here or don't you?"

On the eighth day he gets up. He pulls his shoulders back, ties and reties his tie until it's perfect, adjusts his sleeves. No, he doesn't belong here, but he's going to try. He's going to try because he has no home, no family, nowhere else to go. He's going to prove himself worthy of Downton Abbey if it's the last thing he does.

_**ii.**_

"I've got a job," she tells him.

"A job?"

"Head housemaid at Downton Abbey," she nods.

"Head housemaid? But you've never worked in a house before."

"I thought you of all people would have faith in me, Joe."

"It's awfully far from here."

"Not too far."

He kisses her.

"You're already too far from me."

"I'm right beside you."

And then he asks her, holds both her hands in his for an eternity.

She doesn't know what to say.

"Take your time," he says, "I'll be here."

**_iii._**

He opens the door for her – back straight, feet together, toes pointed – when she arrives.

"And you would be?"

"Ms. Hughes," she mirrors his posture, "the new head housemaid."

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hughes," he says, though pleasure seems a stranger to his face. She wonders if everyone at Downton is cut like this – straight lines and harsh edges. "I'm Carson, his Lordship's valet. Shall I –"

He holds out a hand to take her suitcase.

"I think I'll manage, thank you, Mr. Carson."

**_iv._**

"Should you, Ms. Hughes, find yourself intimidated by the Crawley family –"

"Beg pardon, Mr. Bell, but I doubt that will be an issue."

The dinner table is silent, silver clangs against the wood. One of the maids nearly chokes on her soup. Someone snickers. Charles watches Mr. Bell's mouth twitch, but he says nothing. Elsie Hughes only smiles slightly at the butler, before returning to her meal. Charles doesn't know whether to loathe or admire her.

**_v._**

He doesn't have many, no, any friends at Downton. He doesn't say this bitterly or moaning for sympathy; he never had any intention of making friends. No, the last time he had a friend, he had Griggs. He doesn't need anyone or anything like that again. The things Charles Carson needs are a clean suit and a job well done. He throws himself into his work, throws himself into adjusting His Lordship's collar, setting the table for dinner. This is all he needs.

Still, somehow, he finds himself talking more and more frequently to the head housemaid. He blames it on the fact that they are, more or less, equals in the house hierarchy. Still, when they pass each other in the hall, she tends to ask him the oddest questions.

"Is there anything you put before your work?"

His reply is instant, "No, there's not a single thing."

She chews on her lip slightly – "Thank you, Mr. Carson" – and disappears up the stairs.

**_vi._**

"I'm sorry Joe, I really am."

He's silent, looks down at his palms.

"But I'm – I'm very good at what I do now and I couldn't continue if I – if we –"

"So you love it more than you love me?"

She looks down at her palms.

"You'll tell me how you get on, won't you? Write to me. I'd still like to hear from you, Joe. You're my friend."

He wouldn't call the past two years _friendship_, but he can't find any other words.

She tries to smile at him and he tries back.

It's the best they can do.

_**vii.**_

When she thinks everyone else is asleep, she walks back down to the kitchen. She pours the tea out slowly, steam swirling around her face. She's not going to cry over him, she tells herself. She has no reason to; she's made the right decision. She stares into her cup, stares right into her reflection.

"I'm not sad," she tells herself aloud. "I'm not sad."

Theirs a faint jingle down the hall, the jostling of wind chimes and a few heavy steps. The housekeeper – grey hair, pale face – appears in the doorway.

"Mrs. Fletcher –"

The housekeeper says nothing. She pulls out the chair opposite to the maid, sits herself down, pours herself out a cup of tea.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Fletcher," Elsie starts again, "I ought to be –"

"Forget it, Ms. Hughes. Forget it _all_ for ten years, at least," the woman purses her lips, takes a sip of tea, "invest yourself in what you're good at instead."

Elsie Hughes takes her advice to heart. That day was the last one she ever took off – not until he wrote her again.

_**viii.**_

Charles Carson becomes butler when Mr. Bell retires in November. In honour of the occasion, he digs his old shoes out of his dresser and throws them away. He's drowned himself in etiquette, in rules, in standards. He belongs, he belongs, he belongs.

The first knock he receives on his new pantry door is from Ms. Hughes.

"Congratulations," she says, "though we all knew you were next in line."

He belongs, he belongs, he belongs, he – does he really?

"Y – you think so, Ms. Hughes?" He says quietly, as she shuts the door behind her. "Do you think I'm really cut out to be a butler?" A butler at _Downton_, no less.

"You mean," she grins, "you weren't raised for this role since birth?"

He says nothing, adjusts his tie.

"Well then, Mr. Carson, you've certainly fooled us all."

He tilts his head to the side, confused.

"I think you'll make us all very proud."

She touches his arm for the briefest of moments, and he smiles in return.

It's all he can do.

_**ix.**_

_Forget it all – for ten years at least._

She tries, she tries very hard to. But when she does the girls' hair or zips up their dresses (as all head housemaids do), she can't help but notice her hands still look like a farmgirl's. They haven't changed a bit, not after all this time. They're rough and weighed down from years and years of earth; they belong back in Scotland, belong back in the fields, in the barn, in the hay. They belong anywhere but here.

"There you go," she tells Lady Sybil, fastening the beads around her neck. "You look lovely."

"Do I look lovely?" Edith asks. Mary rolls her eyes.

"Of course you do, dear."

She's close enough in age to her Ladyship that the girls could've, might've been her daughters. Perhaps. Or her daughters might have been like them. She can't help but wonder when Joe sends her letters – of farm work, of his marriage to Ivy, of the birth of their son –, if had she said yes, would she have had a son, would she have had Peter? Or would she have had a girl, or two, or three? Oh, they could be her children, but they aren't and she's sure to never cross that line. (From the corner of her eye, sometimes, she thinks Mr. Carson fancies Mary as if she were his own. She finds _that _most improper, though she'd never tell him.) No, she doesn't love them, doesn't feel for them anymore than anyone else downstairs does.

_But still_, her mind urges, _what if_.

_**x.**_

"Mr. Carson…"

"Yes?"

"Have you ever made a mistake?"

"Only once, Ms. Hughes."

Part of her is surprised when she doesn't say _"Me too". _

_**xi.**_

Elsie Hughes becomes Mrs. Hughes next spring. She fastens the keys to her waist and moves her books, her letters, her papers to Mrs. Fletcher's pantry. Mr. Carson is the first to knock on her door.

"Congratulations," he says.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson."

She never asks him if he thinks she'll be good at her job. (Though, considering he had a hand in picking her, the question would have been redundant anyway.) She never betrays any nerves. Perhaps she saw this promotion as an inevitable, just as he did. Or perhaps, he thinks, watching her organize her things, she's just far more confident than he'll ever be.

All the same, he's glad she's equal. He can't imagine anyone else.

_**xii.**_

The rest of the staff has left for the fair or have gone to bed, and so they find themselves the only ones occupying the dining table.

"You don't have anyone to take down?" She laughs. Charles Carson is wedded to Downton Abbey; as if a woman ever stood a chance against the estate.

"You're not out there either."

_Ten years at least, _she reminds herself.

"Well I couldn't have gone. Couldn't let the house call apart in my absence."

He snorts slightly. "You think me incapable?"

"I think you underestimate what I do around here, Mr. Carson."

"I hope you don't think you're under-appreciated here, Mrs. Hughes because -"

_Ten years at least_.

She shuffles the cards. "Shall we play again?"

"Of course."

"It won't be too irresponsible of you to play not just one but two rounds?" She grins, deals out their hands.

"What the footmen don't know won't hurt them."

_**xiii.**_

She knocks on the door twice, but only out of courtesy, before swinging his door open, marching inside.

"What was _that_?"

"What was what, Mrs. Hughes?"

"You had no right to dismiss Amelia –"

"Am I not the butler of Downton?"

"The girls are under _my _jurisdiction, Mr. Carson, in case you've forgotten."

"And you were going to let her blatant slander against the Crawley family slide then?"

"_Certainly not. _But it was still my issue to handle."

He looks away, but he can still feel her glare. He says nothing, but she knows his silence to be the closest thing to an apology his pride will allow.

"And close your window," she adds as she leaves. "It's freezing outside. You'll catch and cold and we can't afford to be down _another _staff member."

_**xiv.**_

She collapses into her chair, looks at him from across the table.

"God help us if the rest of the week is like today," she says.

"Do you think we're sending ourselves to an early grave, Mr. Carson?"

"At times," he mutters. He's opened up the bottle of wine. She notices that he's filled up the glasses to the brim tonight; a rare occasion to be sure.

"But is there anything else you'd rather be doing?" She takes the glass from his hand.

"Me?" He takes a sip. Charles Carson, in all the years she's known him, has never gulped down his wine. He drinks like a gentleman if she ever saw one. "No, there's nothing else."

He pauses. "And you?"

She lacks his elegance, she supposes, setting down her empty glass.

"No," she echoes, "there's nothing else."

_**xv.**_

She wakes up one morning and releases it's been ten years.

Her hands still belong on the farm and she still doesn't drink her wine like a high society lady, but she's never felt more at home.

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><p><em>Hopefully you didn't find this too dull. I just wanted some CarsonHughes in between all the O'Brien. I'll try to write a proper story for these two soon!_


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